#and thus am largely incoherent!!

[storybookprincess]

Do you have any tips for an aspiring librarian who’s going to college in a few months?

my first instinct upon reading this ask was to give you some good but fairly generic advice about getting library experience via your school's work study program, exploring different career paths within the library umbrella, interning at your local public library if possible, and so on & so forth

but then i realized that that is the sort of information you can find pretty much anywhere & i will instead give you my personal insight into what has helped me be successful in my current library role.

do whatever weird shit you are passionate about with your whole heart & soul, because you will learn invaluable skills without even intending to

what i mean by all that is that my current position as the assistant manager of a small, rural library branch is really just twenty-nine different jobs in a trench coat. i'm alternately an it specialist, a graphic designer, a career counselor, a preschool teacher, a customer service agent, or whatever else a particular situation demands.

and so much of my current skillset is a result of spending my high school & college years doing random nerd bullshit on the internet.

i'm dead serious. my ability to troubleshoot basically any possible tech issue, my knowledge of graphic design software, my extensive research capabilities, my written communication skills, and my absolute certainty that if i don't know how to do something, i can figure it out if you give me fifteen minutes to poke around on google are all products not of my formal education or work experience, but of the countless hours i have devoted to online nerd bullshit

enjoy college. explore your passions. get super into modding minecraft, or archiving lost media, or formatting fanzines, or literally whatever niche nonsense speaks to you. librarianship is a career of quick thinking & problem solving skills, and you'll best develop those doing something you truly care about

in the words of the mountain goats, the things you do for love are gonna come back to you one by one

[contact-guy]

lol THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG but it's such a cute story opening that I had to draw Watson roasting Holmes's messiness for the newspaper and Holmes skillfully maneuvering his way out of having to do chores. It's all canon, even the indoor sharpshooting, except for the bit about the cold bath.

canon text under the cut:

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a little recherchè.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.

-The Memories of Sherlock Holmes: The Musgrave Ritual

[vexwerewolf]

I’m suddenly getting swathes of Lancer hate across my feed… Has something happened in the fandom? “Union is ______ how could they paint them as even remotely good. They allow _____, and I hate the devs they are ______. The whole thing is just 40k with communist veneer”.

Like am I taking crazy pills…? I thought that all of the problems were literally like right there on the tin “we are a utopia in progress! We will obtain it by any means possible even if it means being everything we say we are not/fighting against. As the player you decide what is right. How much will you ignore for someone else’s idea of utopia?” Like doesn’t it mean all the tools to actually change are there and that is the HOPE aspect of all of this?

(Sorry if this in incoherent grammar is a weak point and I pulled something in my back simply standing up. Now I am sad and crook backed in spasmodic pain)

This isn't an argument I feel super enthusiastic about stepping into, because it gets the most annoying sort of people in your mentions eager to maliciously misrepresent what you say.

However, yeah, there are some pretty terrible readings of Union floating around. I'd invoke "media literacy" because think that a lot of this comes from people not really holistically engaging with the fictional future history of Lancer, but also from a sort of dogmatic purism that requires future societies to be flawless, else they're irredeemable.

It is important to note that ThirdComm is the direct descendant of two highly imperfect societies. FirstComm was formed as a response to the Three Great Traumas of discovering the Massif Vaults (and thus that they were the inheritors of a fallen world), the wars over the Massif Vaults, and the discovery of the lost colonies, all of which collectively showed humanity how close it had come to total extinction.

FirstComm decided that it had a responsibility to ensure that humanity never risked extinction again. It manifested this by trying to colonize every habitable planet it could find, pumping out ship after ship to seed the cosmos with as much human life as it possibly could. This led to problems when it encountered civilizations like the Karrakin Federation and the Aun, who had been carrying humanity's torch just fine by themselves, thank you very much.

SecComm was an Anthrochauvinist fascist state. The book defines it thusly:

We can see a lot of Anthrochauvinist historical romanticism in the mech naming schemes of Harrison Armory, SSC and IPS-N - the fact that Harrison Armory names its mechs after great military leaders of pre-Fall Earth history, IPS-N does the same with naval figures, and SSC uses the names of Earth animals. Even the GMS Everest is named for a mountain on Earth. It's very Cradle-centric.

Anthrochauvinism was, to be clear, largely just an excuse for colonialism and hegemony. Atrocities could easily be justified under by stating that whoever they're being committed against were a threat to the Continuance of Humanity - a term that SecComm got to define.

It's also at this point that we have to zoom in from broad sociopolitical points to address one very specific piece of history: the New Prosperity Agreement. This was signed to prevent the outbreak of a Second Union-Karrakin War, and mandated that the Karrakin Houses would maintain privileged levels of autonomy within Union, and that they would be granted colonial rights to the entire Dawnline Shore. This agreement, struck in 3007u, basically defines much of the current political situation today.

ThirdComm was a final and inevitable reaction to the atrocities, abuses and excesses of SecComm. The unspeakable horrors of Hercynia were the spark, but I need to stress how little Hercynia actually mattered in the larger Revolution - at the start of NRfaW, it's explicitly stated that almost nobody in the galaxy even knows where it is, let alone what happened there. The Revolution was a generalized response to SecComm's tyranny, with no single rallying cry.

The Revolution might also have failed entirely, but for a critical error by Harrison Armory: pissing off the Karrakin Trade Baronies. After getting kicked off Cradle, the Anthrochauvinist Party organised a fleet at Ras Shamra to try and retake Cradle. Simultaneously, however, they were attempting to secure protectorate agreements to steal worlds in the Dawnline Shore out from under the KTB. Putting these two together and making five, the KTB assumed that the fleet was pointed at Karrakis, and started the First Interest War.

The First Interest War initially favoured the KTB. They smashed the fleet above Ras Shamra and simultaneously conquered the moon of Creighton in the Dawnline Shore. However, they underestimated just how ruthless Harrison I was - he "retook" Creighton by relativistic bombardment, and then conquered four of the 12 worlds of the Dawnline Shore with mechanised chassis, a technology the KTB had not adopted and had no counter for.

To prevent further loss of life, Union was eventually forced to broker a peace agreement that saw Harrison I handing himself over to Union justice in return for Harrison Armory's continued sovereignty, and the KTB joining Union as a full member state.

So, with that historical context out of the way, let me get to the second part of this absurd essay I'm writing.

Third Committee Union isn't a civilization that arose from whole cloth. It's shaped by five thousand years of Union history, six thousand years of post-Fall history, and six thousand years of pre-Fall history before that. It is, ultimately, an extremely well-thought-out and well-worldbuilt fictional polity, in that all of its imperfections come from traceable root causes in its history.

Why does ThirdComm permit the abuses of the KTB? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with Harrison Armory and make horrific concessions.

Why does ThirdComm permit the expansionism and cryptochauvinism of the Armory? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with the KTB and make horrific concessions.

Nobody in CentComm likes that Harrison Armory are empire-building expansionists. Nobody in CentComm likes that the KTB has a hereditary nobility and enforces blockades against planets that rebel against it. The problem is that ThirdComm is, in historical terms, still relatively new. They've been around five hundred years, and compared to the 1600 years that SecComm was around and the 2800 years FirstComm existed for, that's not very much.

ThirdComm is attempting to decouple itself from the Cradle-first politics of its predecessor, and to amend the many, many atrocities committed in the name of Humanity. It is not easy to do any of these things. SecComm was defined almost entirely by the fact that if it didn't like what you were doing, it would send in the military as a first response. Every time ThirdComm chooses to do the same, its legitimacy erodes, because the mission of ThirdComm is to prove that diverse, vibrant and compassionate human civilization can exist without devolving into war and bloodshed. ThirdComm always tries diplomacy as a first response because if it doesn't, millions of people could die.

[catgirl-kaiju]

No, sweetiepie. You support Pussy Ass Bitch. Your imbecility and solipsism (you doubtless voted for Shrill Jill the PUTA Shill in 2016) helped PAB steal the White House and you're doing your best to make it happen again. YOU are partially responsible for the death of Roe and every other fascist act committed by our Nazi SCROTUS. YOU, bitch, and all your little online 'leftist' edgelord-wannabe friends. EAT IT. OWN IT. YOU ARE TO BLAME.

okay... so... most of this is incoherent, but i will respond to each claim that i can understand one at a time.

i'm assuming "Shrill Jill" refers to Jill Stein. i did not vote for her in 2016. i voted for Hillary Clinton. I still have some criticisms of Jill Stein's past behavior and stances, and i am skeptical of her viability as a candidate in the current election, but she has been vocal about her wish to stand with the ICJ in prosecuting isreal for their genocide against the Palestinian peoples, more than most candidates in this race can say. also, "Shrill Jill" strikes me as a very misogynistic nickname, seems ethically dubious to use that.

i'm not entirely sure who PAB is supposed to be, but in context, it seems like you mean donald trump? i don't know how you get PAB from that, but i digress. have you actually taken the time to go look at the publically available voting statistics from 2016? bc I have, and those statistics do not reflect the story of people voting 3rd party giving trump an advantage in that election. in fact, i've reviewed the voting statistics of every presidential election so far in the 21st Century, and there has not been a single time i can find that voting 3rd party over one of the big two made a significant enough difference to impact the results for either the dem. or rep. candidates. 3rd party voters are not a large enough group to have any relevance statistically, unfortunately, and this has been the case even as far back as the 80s. besides, if you really want to get mad at people voting 3rd party, the libertarians are right there. why don't you badger them about voting democrat? they're THE most popular 3rd party by a WIDE margin. if there's any group that could even come close to making a difference, they're it.

the loss of Roe v. Wade is a collective failure on the part of every administration since its ruling. no one has done enough to protect and enshrine the ruling as reflective of an inalienable right. while it's true that the trump administration was able to stack the supreme court, making the final pieces fall into place for the removal to happen, the ruling happened under the joe biden administration, and thus administration has done NOTHING to negate the ruling or provide better protections for the right to abortion access.

i think you need to look inward at the party that YOU support and what THEY are culpable for, what your support of them makes YOU an accomplice to under your own logic. stop blaming people on the left for progressive policies not happening, and accept that the dems have been the less fascy right-wing for a while now. accept that, unless you vote 3rd party or withhold your vote, you are voting for a candidate and a party that supports genocide. ask yourself if that's a concession you're willing to give.

i doubt that any of what you've said has been in good faith, anon, but i felt it worth it to use your drivel to push back on the common talking points you're using. i hope you grow a new and worse appendix, especially if you still have your's.

[immortalarizona]

hi! i’m curious about how you’re characterizing buppido in your OotA game—in my experience playing and planning to DM, i’ve had trouble connecting with him and figuring out how to make his twist surprising and impactful.

also if you have any similar thoughts for shuushar, that’s another blorbo i don’t know how to make compelling lol

I'm soooooo flattered to have gotten this ask from you!!!! first off, I would like to apologize if this is largely incoherent; I have spent a solid seven (7) of the past 24 hours playing two different D&D sessions, both of them pretty brutal combats. this is gonna be a loooooong post, so my answer is under the cut :]

also, if anyone reading this post happens to be one of my players going snooping for my blog, STOP READING NOW.

okay cool

I'll start each character section with a quick description I wrote for myself on each of their personalities (or my interpretations of them, at least).

Buppido

Buppido Diirdeklin is surprisingly talkative and friendly given the situation everyone is in. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything, diving into even the thick of battle with his perpetual, almost uncanny cheer. He seems to be very devoted to some deity unknown to non-derro, as after every battle, he kneels over the bodies of any enemy he has slain and appears to pray in silence for a few seconds. Buppido’s faith is the only subject which he remains reticent about, but he will happily engage in discussions of almost anything else with anyone else. He claims a desire to return to his people in Gracklstugh in order to help liberate them from their lives as second-class citizens under the duergar.

basically, how I saved Buppido thus far was through a lot of guilt-tripping the player characters and using what I knew of them (only what I reasonably figured he would know at this point; he's not secretly omniscient like Jimjar so there's only so much meta knowledge I can apply) to manipulate them. the angle I'm taking is that he wants something objectively good (for the derro to not be treated like dogshit) but is going about it in The most fucked up way possible (ritual murder because he think it'll give him back his divine power, which he can then use to fucking obliterate the duergar and free his people). he is very polite and has this veneer of kindness with which he treats the people he's manipulating. he will say whatever it takes to get the person he's talking to on his side, regardless of whether he actually believes it (but I do think it's more interesting if he genuinely believes he's doing the right thing). as an example of this in action, here's a copy of the monologue he gave the rogue when she was like "hey dude, I'm getting Real Bad Vibes from you, what's up." keep in mind that she is a tiefling.

"I heard what Kzekarit said to you a few nights back--so I trust that you will understand what it means to be judged solely on the basis of your blood. The duergar"--he almost spits the name--"have given us many names, none of them fit for polite company. Even our name in Undercommon comes from their word for 'derelict.' The audacity, when it is them that have forced us to live in the streets--if they allow us to live at all!" Buppido's voice has steadily been raising in volume this entire time, and he has to take a moment to catch his breath after that. When he continues, his voice is quieter, but no less passionate. "I have lived a long time. But I am blessed beyond measure. I am the exception. I am what is known among my people as a savant--one who has manifested magical powers. We are respected, yes, but. . . magic changes you. I have seen. . . things. . . in the shadows that I can never unsee. Things much worse than intellect devourers." His grip on his staff, which he is currently using as a walking stick, trembles, and he closes his eyes. "I have to believe that it was worth it. If I don't deliver us. . . no one will." He looks up at Promise again. "Do you understand now, little thief?" he asks, but it's not a question. It's a plea.

(for context, Sarith called the rogue "demonspawn" before promising that he would not hesitate to stab her if he saw a reason to do so when she asked where his loyalties lay.)

similarly, Buppido appealed to the ranger's sense of sympathy/pity with an excuse about nightmares and not entirely being himself when he woke up from one, which is why he tried to stab the twins. this was a bit of metagaming on my part, but the ranger is haunted by nightmares despite not sleeping (drow moment). it worked, and when the ranger had a mini emotional breakdown, Buppido then appealed to his sympathies further by patting the ranger's hand and saying that he would hug him, but he is not very tall, and his poor back can only take so much strain. the ranger then kneeled down, cast cure wounds to help Buppido's back pain, and gave him a hug. Buppido thanked the ranger for giving him another chance (as he had similarly given Sarith another chance) and told the ranger that he has a "good heart" and to "never change." (what he really meant was "you're so fucking easy to manipulate and I would prefer for that to not change.")

so, y'know. a lot of Manipulate Mansplain Manslaughter, with a side of Moral Complexity. like, man's a fucking serial killer, but he also has an ultimate goal which my party at least seems to empathize with. as for the emotional impact, you really only get as much out of the reveal as your players put into the character during the lead-up. my party has a Massive found family dynamic going already (Topsy has already sarcastically called the ranger, who she accidentally bit by the way, "dad," to give you a sense of how things are going), and Buppido fits right in as a sort of grandpa figure. he will find the most emotionally vulnerable PCs, worm his nasty little way into their hearts through false displays of kindness, and try to drive a wedge between them and any other characters who see through him. (I suggest giving him expertise in Deception. it feels appropriate.)

Shuushar

Shuushar the Awakened claims to have spent a lifetime in contemplation and solitary meditation in order to overcome his people’s legacy of madness, and it shows in the aura of enlightened calm he exudes despite the horrors he has suffered during his imprisonment. Nothing seems to be able to drive him to anger, and he is utterly unafraid to die for his belief in peace and goodness. He is always happy to offer tidbits of wisdom to those who ask for them, and also to those who don’t. Shuushar hopes to return to his hometown of Sloobludop in order to share his enlightenment with his fellow kuo-toa, as well as anyone else he encounters along the way.

Shuushar,,, drives my players a little bit insane, and I definitely haven't been utilizing his full potential (the players have been mostly fixated on Sarith, the twins, and the cleric NPC I brewed up to replace Eldeth). I've mostly been using him as a vehicle for foreshadowing through what I call Shuushar Stories. he's just. the Worst Fucking Storyteller and it's delightful to write, actually. here are two of the ones I feel contribute most to his characterization:

#1: Darklake Hag

“Yeah, so when they threw me out of Sloobludop, they didn’t even give me a boat, so I had to steal one. Or I was planning to, but then my friend Bloppdagadil snuck out after me to give me her spare boat and also a bag of crawlers. They weren’t fresh, but it was still a great gesture. What a gal. . . Shame the merrows got her. Nasty surprise when the fishermen I was traveling with pulled bits of her out of the Lake in their nets. . . Anyways, yeah, so I was traveling in Bloppdagadil’s boat when suddenly, I’m stuck on a sandbar! So I get out and try to push the boat back into the water when this weird green lady appears out of nowhere and asks me if I want to make a deal with her—I think it was for infinite wisdom or something. I told her, ‘No thanks, I’m good,’ and I push the boat back into the water. Enlightenment is more about the journey than the destination, really, and it wouldn’t mean anything if I didn’t earn it. . . The boat got caught in a whirlpool a few days later. I think it was the green lady’s fault. She said goodbye very ominously.” 

the key takeaways from this one are these:

the Darklake is dangerous, and Shuushar exists in a world where it's just Normal for people to die. you accept it. you move on. it is what it is.

he believes in the journey over the destination. the end does not justify the means.

he has a strong moral code and refuses temptation at every turn (you could play with this in your own campaign depending on how well your players take to him).

he is just a Weird-Ass Guy (affectionate).

foreshadowing for the green hag in the Darklake which I'm gonna present as an option to save Sarith (but at a COST, mwahahahaha).

#2: Funny Story, I Was Exiled

“I will warn you that I didn’t leave Sloobludop on the best of terms, really. Everyone was always moving, moving, moving with the land currents, but I just wanted to stand still for a minute. Ploopploopeen didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. . . Oh, Ploopploopeen? He was the archpriest of the Sea Mother—had just been promoted, and his first act was to tell me to never come back. Said I was a ‘bad influence’ or something, and that his daughter would get the wrong idea, watching me. . . I’m not mad about it. Love and fear, together, are a strange thing, and either one alone can drive people to do things they know in their hearts are wrong. Tost about by unseen currents. . . I wonder if he remembers me. I want him to know that I forgave him a long time ago.”

what this monologue was meant to convey:

foreshadowing, mostly. tryna set up Ploopploopeen's motives a bit better than in the module.

Shuushar has hidden depths! he's not some dumbass stoner (though I do try to portray him like he's constantly high, because I think it's funny), he has philosophy! and compassion! and an incredible ability to forgive those who have wronged him! he's a genuinely good dude!

the delivery of these really helped his character come across, tbh. (these ones were given during the session proper, not between via text chatting.) he's just spacey and--not monotone, exactly, but very level in his tone. he's calm. he's unshakeable. maybe your players will appreciate that, or maybe they'll find him annoying and want to stuff a rag into his mouth to get him to Shut Up. (and even that in itself can become compelling; I think we've got a bit of an in-joke developing that We Don't Let Shuushar Tell Stories.)

thanks for the ask, and I really hope this helped!! it was delightful getting to ramble about my own devious machinations, and I would be happy to chat further about my takes on each of the NPCs if you so desire :D

[aeliussaionji]

Scattered thoughts on my relationship to media

I often muse "since criticism is subjective, how do we confidently asses a thing? Who decided what makes something 'good'?". hbomberguy's "RWBY is Disappointing" video is making me do just that.

Going in I expected him to reveal things I overlooked, as I can be pretty bad at noticing inconsistencies in media. But to the contrary, in the first half of the video, he focuses on talking about aspects of the show I don't care about, or even find endearing. The latter half(ish) focuses more on how the writers drop the ball in trying to tackle the subject of racism. In the rest of these scattered thoughts I am not referring to that- largely because I didn't watch it all at once, and much of my thoughts happened following my first intermission.

But first- something else entirely:

Some years ago, friends and I discussed our thoughts on the new star wars trilogy. The movie where Kylo and Rey team up for the fight in the throne room is easily my favorite of the three. The first entry was boring and the third one is a crime. But the second- it explores new ideas about the Force not being binary, has amazing visual scenes (some of which everyone hates for the lore implications), it has that friggin' amazing throne room fight where Light and Dark team up, after which there's a very compelling "we should join forces" moment. Given how much the movie had broken off traditional star wars thus far, I was genuinely uncertain what Rey would do, and in that moment I was more engaged than I had ever been with any star wars content before.

People who dislike that movie counter with "but why would the commander do X in scene Y? Makes no sense!" or "the whole sequence with the casino was bad". And to me that's… I literally don't remember those things exist until people complain about them. I am laser focused on what I enjoyed and tune out what didn't work for me. In the discussion I was having among friends, the primary complaint they had is how the second movie breaks continuity of the trilogy. As I see it, the first movie is unobjectionable and technically good, I never hear passionate criticism for that. It's also just a nothing burger. I've near forgotten the entire thing. Nothing happens in it to pique my interest. It seems that's true for others as well, given that any discussion of the trilogy I've heard very quickly becomes about what the second movie did wrong. Would the second movie be "better" if it were as unobjectionable as the first? Would the trilogy? Many seem to prefer simpler works with competent execution, which, I can get into as well! But when shards of creativity capture my attention, I find myself either forgiving flaws, forgetting them, or filling in blanks where no details were provided. So: I don't give a damn that the trilogy is now incoherent as a whole! I really, really, like certain scenes of the second movie and give zero thoughts to the rest.

To which my friend responds, "do that in a different story!" But does that mean they'd prefer something competently constructed and less creative, like the first movie was? After all, I see plenty of energy spent dressing down sloppy execution of the second movie, but hardly any energy is given to criticizing how creatively bankrupt the first movie is. In this dichotomy I've constructed, I feel I'm in the minority for preferring a creative mess.

(Also the reality of capitalism in Hollywood is that writers don't often have the freedom to just make new IPs; existing IPs are what's on the table and writers make due. That's how it's gonna be, might as well consider such stories to be standalone. Blame capitalism, not the writers.)

Back to RWBY: hbomberguy keeps complaining that RWBY's animation, writing, voice acting, songs, etc are all amateur. And, yeah man, it's literally a first work by amateurs. Halfway through his video, the point he keeps returning to is that the show has good ideas but the amateur efforts holds it back. And… yeah man, amateurs have good ideas sometimes? Ep1 pretty firmly establishes the level of quality the creators are bringing to the table, and I calibrated my expectations accordingly.

More than just calibrating my expectations, I can find the amateur aspect endearing, and I enjoy seeing the voice actors and animators and writers improve as the series goes along. It's like its own meta narrative- we the viewers get to witness the voice actors grow more confident over time. They come a long way from their early shy and clunky performances.

Now, I don't necessarily think that criticism should be "calibrated" to expectations, or that media should be graded on a curve. It's completely fair to judge what's on the table no matter who made it. I agree with basically all of hbomberguy's criticisms, I'm enjoying the detective work he has done to outline how and why the quality may have suffered, I'm laughing along with his jokes, and certainly his criticisms could help the team grow as creators. It's just that his delivery leaves me wondering if he's playing up his reactions for comedic effect, or if he genuinely can't engage with amateur efforts. This leads me to an introspective thought spiral- there are many examples of media I quite like where the execution is fumbled in some way. There are many examples of media with stellar execution, but I'm simply bored by the content. If I were to ever try and formally criticize something, what form should my criticism take in this framework? Should my criticism value execution over creativity? Excellent execution can be an art in of itself and I often do enjoy a job well done, but in general I don't derive much enjoyment from how technically well executed the art is. Should I, though? Are my media recommendations to friends worse off for my tendency to forget that which doesn't interest me? Should my critique spend time grading creators on form, even when the mistakes don't bother me personally, or is it enough to simply expand only on what I personally experience? Does loving content with poor execution mean I have mid taste in media?

There is another more personal layer to my thought spiral reaction. hbomberguy spends some time demonstrating that certain concepts in RWBY are not explained well and would be confusing to first time viewers. This leads me to think that I'm so accustomed to being out of the loop that I don't blink when something doesn't make sense, and in fact I might not even notice ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

There are many works which avoid directly stating authorial intent, instead (hopefully) leaving enough information for the audience to arrive at the conclusion themselves. This is often stated as "respecting the intelligence of the audience". Problem is, I may not have enough context to work it out, and I'm not always on my A-game while consuming media. Probably most of the time I am very much not! I think I've come to assume that when I encounter a point of confusion, the failing is mine.

Me, enjoying a show as much of the subtler meaning flies over my head:

[patrocles]

If you’re still looking for topics of discussion, how do you envisage Alys and Aemond’s relationship? Also considering book vs show taking into account of what we’ve seen in s1 so far regarding Aemond’s character and the writing in general? Would love to hear your thoughts.

WOULD LOVE TO DISCUSS THIS (i’m on mobile for apologize for incoherency)

So my ideas about where Alys and Aemond’s relationship will go is largely rooted in what’s been established with Aemond’s character thus far, less about the book canon aside from broadstroke plot beats. The idea of show!Aemond just taking a woman as a bedmate would be pretty inconsistent with the guy we know who prides himself on Not being a depraved piece of shit like Aegon.

I think that leaves a pretty fair opening for his and Alys’ dynamic to work more like a slowburn?

There of course are the immediate logistics of how they meet, will show!Aemond slaughter all of House Strong. I think a lot of it would depend on how Aemond changes after Storm’s End. I can personally see him leaning into his new role as a feared kinslayer instead of pleading his case that Luke’s death was an accident. Not leaning into it necessarily because it makes him look Cool, but there being no real point in trying to change the narrative once the stain has been set and war is happening anyways.

Very James Flint “Everyone’s a villain to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.” core

However, I do think its something that will still weigh on him over the seasons the further the war goes on and the more war crimes he ends up committing. A tragic form of Committing to the Bit. I think also we’ll see Aemond struggle with his relationship with his family, especially Alicent. What we’ve seen in the show is Aemond being the Dependable child, the one Alicent can really rely on, and in turn she’s been the family member that he’s closest to. So after Storm’s End, if that relationship is fractured, I can really see Aemond working incredibly hard to regain that status as The Reliable One, and really carrying the weight of responsability to win the war he thinks he started. The irony is that committing so hard to this would effectively damn him even more than just Luke’s death and force him to really commit reprehensible actions, all in the name of saving his family after KL is taken.

NOW ENTER ALYS. (mind you this is all what i personally find narratively interesting)

Let me just first say that I absolutely hate the Femme Fatale Sexy Seductress trope that people seem to apply to her.

I think the Alys that we meet is just a woman who has a bad reputation because of the way the men have failed her in her life. I would really love for the show to explore why it meant for Alys to be Lyonel’s bastard, abandoned at Harrenhal. The fact that she’s a servant and a wet nurse specifically means that she was in some capacity, not protected by her father and brothers, as well as the other relatives still at Harrenhal. One would have to wonder just how bad she would actually feel if Aemond were to kill some of them.

I can also see Alys leaning to her Old Gods faith for a sense of comfort and perhaps was a sort of healer (hence why people thought she was a witch). Like Aemond, if people already have this impression of her, what’s the point in changing the narrative especially if her reputation was already tarnished with a pregnancy. And perhaps there’s a degree of safety in people thinking she’s a creepy weird witch, they (men) wont fuck with her. (Like maybe she did have a child that died in infancy bc The Times and people thought that she sacrificed it to the Old Gods, which is like incredibly sad to think about? But would add to the Witchy reputation)

So Aemond and Alys together, I think it’s a dynamic that has to be fleshed out on an emotional level for it to really work, given the nature of confusion in Fire and Blood with people thinking she bewitched Aemond. Of course being a prince, it wouldn’t be insane for him to take a woman of the castle he took, but for him to MARRY her? While being betrothed to a Baratheon?? It’s just not something that the pragmatic Aemond we’ve seen would just do on a whim.

I think there would be a whole thing of like Being Seen by the one person in the entire world who could possibly ever understand you. And that would be Aemond and Alys to each other. It’s compelling to ME because they are as different as could possibly be, a Targaryen prince and a riverlander wet nurse, and yet they manage to find a kindredness in loneliness, feeling isolated from their families, and carrying the weight of being misunderstood by everyone.

And maybe they confess their burdens to each other and actually feel heard for the first time in their lives. I think it would be an act of making themselves equal to each other (which would be an interesting contrast to Rhaenyra and Daemon’s relationship) (Aemond letting Alys take off his eye patch you will see my climbing the walls and eating the plaster)

So falling in love would require a conscious act of choice; Aemond choosing Alys and committing to her. Fighting this war and doing what needs to be done to win it, even if it means further condemning himself morally, But keeping Alys because it’s the only thing he’s ever gotten to have for just himself, save for Vhagar.

So people took what Ewan said about Aemond knowing that he’s going to die as proof? That Alys would be cut from the show?? A wild stretch but I think him knowing that this war will end with his death in some capacity really contextualizes why he chooses Alys— if he knows he won’t make it long enough to fufill his oath to the Baratheons, why not embrace what he has with Alys now. But where Aemond get fucked up a bit, is getting this Grand Love he’s always craved, and now a child! But the tragedy of knowing that he can’t have it. I think he knows what it would mean to fight Daemon, that he would die to do it as he’a the biggest threat to not only his family in KL, but now Alys and their child. And there would be struggle there, there would be Aemond’s heart in conflict, “Love is the death of duty”, etc. But the longer he puts it off to have Alys just one more day, the more he knows she would never truly be safe. So again, another act of kinslaying for a kinslayer, to protect them all.

And maybe Alys saw it too, and begged him not to go. He promised to show her Oldtown after all this was over, what things she could learn there! A place for a child to grow up safe and happy, away from all this. But instead she watches him fly off to his doom.

And the Witch Queen of Harrenhal is born from her loss. Her bitterness and grief and fury turning her into a vengeful person. A self fulfilling prophecy in a way, she wasn’t a witch before, now she’ll curse them all for taking Aemond from her. The end of the Dance saw only a handful of survivors, but is this living? It ties into the overall theme of just how pointless the war was, how nothing came of it except trauma and grief. And Alys’ blood oath to avenge Aemond’s death (I’m not saying she placed a placed a curse on the surviving Targaryens, but look at what a fuckin mess the next 170 years was for them)

But like this why whoever plays Alys needs to be a GOOD ACTRESS more than anything, I don’t care if Katie McGrath fits her (fanon) interpretation aesthetically because of a character she played ten years ago. Alys’ actress needs to be able to carry weighty scenes with Ewan like this is a Mom Certified 90s Romance Epic like the English Patient or something. I’m talking micro expressions, I’m talking unmatched chemistry, when I see her witness Aemond fall over the God’s Eye I want a blood curdling shriek that will stay with me for years (very much Abbie Cornish at the end of Bright Star). I WANT GOOD PERFORMANCES

anyways these are my thoughts

[jbt7493]

the tools coming out for like making changes to an artwork that are extremely subtle to a human observer but are adversarial as training data to conventional image generation models is really interesting technologically! i do feel like its . i mean okay so beyond the fact that obviously some people think “AI” image generation is inherently immoral or destructive to culture which is like. i mean i am being intellectually dishonest here but like are you also gonna cry when you see a urinal with a signature on it or a canvas painted red with a stripe of blue and yellow on each side of it?

and like okay. if you do think that (or a variety of similar beliefs such as ‘inclusion or use of AI generated imagery in a work reduces How Much of Art it is’, which i disagree with but i will not expound upon it since its not the main point) then i dont respect that really.

and also I do not like intellectual property. and so that in conjunction with a couple other things makes it difficult for me to respect it if an artist wants absolute control over the reaction that people have to an image they are posting in the public. i am certainly VERY unlikely to respect the desire of an artist to have their work be published and seen by many people and yet not have people who saw it and were inspired by it synthesize elements from it into a new creative work. maybe theres some circumstance in which i could be on the side of the creator of the first work here but generally my reaction is gonna be somewhere between ‘honestly go fuck yourself’ and ‘being upset about this is understandable but your right to control the expression of others is much lower on the hierarchy than their right to express themselves’

but the thing is that like. i think if you are interested in using the ‘data poisoning’ tools specifically to make it inconvenient for somebody to use your work with image generation tools, i mean, thats.. fine, i guess. its not violence. i think in general the desire to be an authority and controller of culture is gonna end up somewhere between misguided and detestable. and i think ‘I want to create culture but only if I can be a petty tyrant about how culture grows and changes’ is, as you may have guessed by my use of the phrase ‘petty tyrant’, childish.

except that is seemingly not the bulk of the attitude around these tools, because like, the enthusiasm seems to be “I want to use this tool on a variety of images and distribute them so as to serve as a large scale net which will ensnare and damage the sampling data of AI image generators so as to make them worse”

which i think if you’re in that group then you are most likely somebody whose beliefs fall into the ‘AI art generators are fundamentally harmful to society/culture’. which i mean again yknow. i think most arguments for that are probably gonna be fundamentally reactionary and/or just blatantly uneducated and incoherent (and i mean somebody who refuses to engage with the opinions of other people on a topic but wants to firmly impose their beliefs onto others is also not garnering much respect from me). so i guess like i dunno i dont really respect you if you are in that category. but it seems to me like

if you care about those data poisoning tools as far as their actual function for an individual instead of just caring about them in the grand scheme of things as ‘this thing exists in opposition to Big AI (not true by the way. how do you think they made the tool. it is, itself, yuri adversarial machine learning) and thus its good’, in which case again like. I dunno I have difficulty entertaining that as an idea. but if you want the tool itself to remain functional you shouldnt try to distribute as much data poison as widely as possible because then, drumroll please-

you are just being the adversarial part of adversarial machine learning. the same method used to make the tool can also figure out exactly what patterns it was based off of and fix the vulnerability and you’re going to make it a problem for the people with enough money to do that then they are going to do that and suddenly the tool will not work against the next generation of these image generators.

[castlebyersafterdark]

ok on the heartstopper conversation cuz i have sooo many thoughts.

so ive watched the show, quite frankly, too many times to count and I really do love it. i think i have an interesting perspective because i have an acting coach (i literally don't act anymore and we kinda just talk about theatre but idk what else to call him) who I discuss hs and other queer media with a lot,, but the thing is he is very much a cishet man from the midwest so he gives very interesting insight on that perspective. he seems to think HS is good and special Because it doesn't depict sex. his reasoning for that is that his impression of the depiction of queer people in queer media or media with queer people is that queer relationships are Just Sex (not his actual view of queer relationships but that's what he seems to think is The Media's view of them is). I remember him telling me a story of how he put on a play called Next Fall (which is kinda like a relationship exploration type play, it honestly felt kinda fanfic esc when i was reading it and its really good too so if anyone wants some play recs that's def one lmao) and someone came up to him afterward and said "i didn't know they could love like that" or something along those lines - now that play is not void of sex or anything but his point of telling me that was that there are still people who don't see queer relationships as real, valid relationships because of how (not just fictional) media has depicted them - mostly sex and no romantic connection.

now has all queer media historically been focussed on depicting solely sexual relationships? no, absolutely not. could i see how someone might get that impression from some more main stream movies and shows? yah fs.

i don't think HS was made specifically for cishet people but i do think the creators had them in mind. it is absolutely Accessible to them. and while that is maybe not the ideal for queer media it becomes necessary when you consider a large majority of the audience for a platform like netflix is straight people. so are probably a lot of investors. and the bigwigs at netflix. you want to make a show? you need money. you want money? you have to cater to people who have it.

honestly i don't have a big conclusion for this, just a lot of questions - was there a knowledge that straight, possibly bigoted, people would tune in and thus decided to share a more fluffy, romantic, not sexy version of queerness because of this perceived purely sexual view of queerness in media? was this on anyones radar? are they going to explore the sex the same way that was done in the comics (who's audience is much more Just Queer afaik, and where sex is very much a topic of discussion and a thing that happens) or will they tone that down? or tone it up? sex sells? idk really where i stand on all of this but ik that i am a queer person and that HS feels like it was made for me and some of the ways i experience queerness. i also think its ok that it isn't made for all the ways i have experienced queerness. the issue is that there isn't enough queer media not that we don't have any entirely perfect, applies to everyone, addresses everything, singular piece of queer media.

sorry for rambling and if this entirely incoherent,, this isn't even all my thoughts but yah!!

More very interesting thoughts and perspectives, thank you for sharing all that! I see a lot of what maybe I hadn't seen thoughtfully discussed about the show. Perhaps just from being in certain circles, the most extreme opinions were the ones that reached me? Different insight always welcome!

Loved this part:

i also think its ok that it isn't made for all the ways i have experienced queerness. the issue is that there isn't enough queer media not that we don't have any entirely perfect, applies to everyone, addresses everything, singular piece of queer media.

I think this is the mindset I hope better conversations and changing and more diverse media options can develop. Not everything is going to represent or be relatable to everyone, and this is true for all media, especially queer media. The human experience is so varied. Which is why that even if people find personal celebrations or faults within a certain media, we don't need to constantly compare and pit against. Excellent summation.

[edwardgdunn]

The Astonishing Power Of Words

Most of us take words for granted. We use them largely, without too much thought, as a means to communicate. We learn language very early and it quickly becomes something akin to breathing. It’s a marvelous tool to be sure and is one of the key differences between humans and other species. Words, however, have far more impact on our lives than most of us tend to realize.

In my study of linguistics I came to realize just how much more. While it is true that words, in their most elemental form, are simply a series of phonetic sounds represented in written form by symbols, they also carry meaning and connotation and this is where the power lies. It is because of this that words can be and are causal in nature. In other words, words cause things. Things like feelings, emotions, actions, reactions, events and more. And yet, given this power of words, we often use them with little consideration.

I’d like to briefly examine how different it can be when we begin to use words more consciously. In order to do that, we need to have a look at some of the effects, both intrinsic and extrinsic, that words are capable of producing.

When directed outward toward others, the impact of words is one of the most powerful forces on earth. The meaning can be something as benign (but useful) as, “Please pass me the salt.” The meaning can have immense positive impact. For example –

“I love you” “I appreciate you” “Congratulations, you just won the lottery!”

Or dreadfully negative impact from words like –

“I hate you.”, “You make me sick.” “I’m going to kill you.” “You’re wrong and I am right.”

Words have been responsible for some of the greatest messages ever conveyed as well as some of the most destructive. Contrast the words used by Buddha and Hitler. Both used words to produce massive results yet those results were vastly different.

The impact of the words we choose is not only external. The words we choose to communicate with ourselves internally are equally as powerful. When we use negative words like –

“I don’t deserve this.” “I’m not good, tall, pretty, outgoing, smart enough.” “I’m so stupid.”

we place ourselves in negative emotional states which, in turn, begins attracting exactly the things required to make those statements true. Our consciousness is on a negative frequency thus attracting the things that are on the same or a similar frequency.

Conversely, when we use words like –

“Life is beautiful.” “Today will be a great day.” “I am happy.”

we position our emotional states and our energy in such a way that we attract the same. The universe is a great mirror that simply gives back to us what we show it. Think of days when it seemed like everything that could go wrong did. And days when everything you did turned out right. What was the difference? Your thoughts – the words you were using to communicate with yourself. If you examine it closely, you will find, without exception, that this was the case.

It has long been understood by both linguists and psychologists that words have a dramatic impact on the nervous system; both that of the speaker as well as the listener. Whether those words are part of our internal dialog or spoken aloud, the effect remains. Words have an effect on our heart rate, blood pressure, and as was demonstrated in the famous water experiments conducted by Dr. Masura Emoto, even on the cells and molecules of our bodies. In these experiments, words were taped to the exterior of containers containing water molecules. Words like, “Thank you” and “I love you”. The crystals were then frozen and produced spectacular, beautiful crystals displaying cohesive patterns. Conversely, when negative words such as “I hate you” and “You make me sick” were attached to the containers, the frozen water molecules displayed incoherent patterns that were anything but beautiful and geometric. Considering that our bodies are made up of over 70% water, imagine the impact words have on our physiology.

So as you go through each day, be constantly aware of the words you use, both internally and externally. You can choose words that support and encourage or words that denigrate and hurt. The choice is always yours and choosing wisely will make all the difference.

~Edward G. Dunn

Check out the Happiness 2.0 Podcast — https://podcast.edwardgdunn.com/

Read the Happiness 2.0 Blog — https://edwardgdunn.com/blog

[memoiremunson]

Casual Dominance - Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: various instances where your bf Eddie Munson demonstrates dominant behaviors in your relationship.

A/N: I wrote this pretty quickly as all these scenarios of Eddie being soft/dominant came to me all at once. I am such a sucker for casual dominance like this with Eddie in other fics and had to divulge and write some of my own. I must admit I did draw inspo from a writer on here who I can't remember (sorry!) where they wrote something about Eddie pulling the reader's skirt down. Ever since I read that, it has lived in my brain rent free and thus this was created. So, thank you to that writer whoever you are! Also, the format of this fic is a bit wonky but I hope you're still able to enjoy! <3

Word Count: 1,467

Warnings: smoking, creepy men, drinking, protective Eddie, kissing, defensive Eddie, drugs, fluff

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Eddie is definitely the type to display various ways of casual dominance. He would never be overbearing but I feel like he’d be very protective of you, wanting to ensure the absolute best for you. He had never loved someone so deeply as love in his own life was scarce. A true romantic at heart, Eddie would vow to protect those who he loves dearly, and my oh my if you were his significant other, you would be at the top of his list. 

Sometimes when you’d come home drunk after seeing Corroded Coffin perform at The Hideout, he’d take off your makeup for you, knowing you’d regret it if you didn't because every single time your eyes burned as soon as you cracked them open in the morning. He’d lead your stumbling figure over to sit on the toilet before getting your makeup wipes that he had stashed away in his room. 

“Sit, sweetheart.” 

“Come on, Edsss,” you drawled out, “ ‘m tired,” punctuating your sentence with a huff and a slight pout to your drawn lips. 

He chuckled as he ran his thumb softly over your extended bottom lip, he found you so endearing when you were like this. 

“I know, honey, but we got to get your makeup off.” He spoke in a hushed voice despite the trailer being only the two of you as Wayne was working his shift at the plant. 

You mumbled incoherently with a slight whine to your now higher-pitched voice. 

Eddie had now kneeled to be eye level with you, one of his large jeweled hands expanding over your exposed knee. His warmth seeping into your already heated body. 

His other hand worked to wipe at your darkened eyes gently. His face contorted in concentration as he worked. His dark eyebrows pulled in towards each other as his pink tongue made its way to the corner of his lip. The room suddenly grew quiet with only the hum of the overhead fan going and the soft breaths of yours and Eddie’s filled the air. 

Finally finishing your eyes, Eddie made haste in wiping off the color on your stained lips. You hummed at this, knowing he’d be finished soon. As that peaceful look came across your face, he couldn't help but stare with pure love and adoration in his eyes. His large brown doe eyes sparkled under the rather dull bathroom light but all could see the adoration that pooled in his eyes.

He could no longer resist before pressing his lips to yours in a soft gentle kiss. You reciprocated it despite not being able to really feel it as the alcohol still coursed heavy through your veins.

“I love you so much, sweetheart, you know that?” 

You now opened your eyes to see the face that you were always meant to love. 

“Yes, Eds. I love you too.” 

The two of you stared, taking the moment to truly let the words sink in. You interrupted the serene moment as the weight of your limbs came back from the floaty feeling Eddie’s love gave you just a moment before.

”Can I cuddle with my Eddie Teddy now?” You asked as your lips pouted again and your eyes turned to puppy ones. 

Eddie’s laugh ricocheted off the plastic walls as your smile grew into a giggle. 

“Of course, sweetheart, let’s go.” 

Another instance would be when you’d be talking energetically about something and he would adjust your clothing or hair. Once you were talking enthusiastically about how great the new song was to the hellfire boys at a band session when the neckline of your shirt began to slip lower. Eddie was quick to spot the top of your bra and moved to smooth out your shirt. 

He placed his large hand on your back and slightly tugged the shirt back into place. All the while, the boys made sure to keep direct eye contact with you as they respected Eddie way too much to be disrespecting him in front of him. His eyes met yours briefly as you continued to talk and he gave you an encouraging smile as you continued expressing your excited feelings. 

Another time, you both were at a party playing a stupid drinking game that he can’t seem to ever remember where you were standing up and sitting down again. With your constant movement of going up and down, your skirt had begun to ride up. He noticed some of the guys taking quick glances at your receding skirt line and exposed thighs. Eddie would quickly shut down their wandering eyes by yelling a “Hey! Watch it, man,” putting on that intimidating, hard exterior that had been cultivated from years of being the town freak.

It worked every single time as the guys would quickly look away and not dare to spare another curious glance. His large hand would then gently tug down the material of your skirt, all while admiring your beautiful smile and knowing only he could get to see that much of your exposed skin. Thus, tying into my idea of Eddie being a “my girl can wear what she wants, I can fight” kind of guy.  

Eddie would constantly carry your purse, backpack, shopping bags, anything. He’d refuse to let you carry things as he wanted you to be as comfortable as possible and enjoy whatever you were doing wholeheartedly. He would often look silly with your frilly, soft-toned purses against his hard, studded outfits of metal band t-shirts, signature leather jacket, battle vest, and ripped jeans. Yet, he never hesitated and always felt pride with you by his side. 

One thing he’d always make sure to do was be the driver when you'd two hang out or go to school. He felt a sense of control when he was behind the wheel, knowing he’d be cautious in protecting his beautiful passenger princess.

When he’d catch you trying to smoke one of his cigarettes, he’d give you a stern warning that often led into a lecture on how he does not want a pretty thing like you to get addicted. When you’d ask him why he could do it but not you, he'd reply with a simple, “I’ve got a reputation to maintain, sweetheart.” The response always left you huffing and puffing while he gave you a signature Munson smirk and inhaled the delicious smoke. 

He would also put you behind him if someone got in his face or a client would unexpectedly walk up to him. Sometimes when things got a little rowdy at The Hideout, he’d shield you away from the brashness of heightened testosterone and alcohol levels. Whether it’d be someone in the audience or a member from the other acts wanting to pick a fight, he’d slowly put his arm out and guide you behind his tall figure, puffing his chest out and making his stature stoic and hard. You couldn't complain though, as the view of his broad shoulders and stiff back had you swooning and wanting to run your hands over the expanse of his sexy back profile. 

Or when you’d be out and about around town, enjoying yourselves and a client would interrupt the two of you. You knew he dealt and was fine with it but he did not want those two aspects of his life crossing. Thus, when a client who was seemingly desperate for goods came up to you and Eddie in the middle of a date, he’d immediately shield you from their sight. He’d tell them that now was not the time in that lower register of his that you’d never hear directed at you. 

The client would try and argue with Eddie but he never backed down. Meanwhile, you’d just brush your thumb across his knuckles as he held your hand behind him, assuring him of your calming presence. Once the agitated client left, Eddie would relax his body and apologize softly. You’d always forgive him but the incident would still leave him upset for a while. That is until the next time he spoke to said client and it would be understood that that would never happen again. 

Even when he was not around, he had told the boys to look out for you as the target on his back easily transferred to yours. The hellfire boys all agreed as you’d quickly become one of their own. So in the rare moments when he wasn’t with you and one of the boys was there when someone decided to shoot off a mean remark, they’d be ready to defend you. 

So yeah, even though this isn’t an ask or really a fic, more like a really long blurb???, I definitely feel like Eddie would be casually dominant with you out of sheer love. Now, in the bedroom, this would transfer in mind-blowing ways that plenty of people here on this site have written about and you should go read!

Thank you for reading, Angel! <3

[edendaphne]

“Discordant Sonata” Chapter 19

>>Click here to read on Ao3<<

>>Click here to read on Wattpad<<

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CHAPTER 19: ATTACCA

Music glossary:        Attacca - "To attack at once"; used as a direction in music at the end of a movement to begin the next without pause

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(Mood music: "The Conversation" - Pearl Django)

Being mere months away from graduating lycée meant that their group of friends didn’t have as many classes together, due to their diverse individual interests and talents. However, they always made sure to make time to hang out after school before their extracurricular activities began.

And thus, Adrien, Nino, and Alya made their way to the classroom where the art club gathered to meet up with Marinette. From there, Adrien would make his way to either fencing lessons or Chinese, depending on the day of the week. Marinette would join him on days when he had Chinese (as she’d become determined to master the language ever since her uncle visited from Shanghai a few years back), Alya would go to her journalism club, and Nino would travel to his part-time internship at the local recording studio.

“–and the backlogs just keep piling up!” Alya spoke as they walked, voice full of vigor and excitement. “I’ve had to recruit yet another mod to help me keep order in the forums! Especially since the Ladyblog has started going international and we’ve had to organize servers in different languages. You wouldn’t believe how crazy it’s gotten in there recently!”

“Dang, babe,” Nino interjected. “Sounds like things are super rough for you right now.”

“Not really, more busy than anything. Especially because I have that big research article due next week, there’s just not enough hours in the day to try to read everything that goes on in there. But I have my mods report to me daily, ‘cause I always like to stay on top of everything that goes on in the chats!”

“What’s gotten everyone so riled up in the Ladyblog lately?” Adrien chimed in. “I don’t recall it being nearly this busy last year.”

The trio entered the art club’s classroom and settled down at the table where Marinette sat, getting her various sketches organized. The art teacher was quite easy going, so they didn’t have to talk in hushed whispers and could come and go as they pleased.

“Well, to be honest, it’s because of Chat Noir,” Alya replied.

Adrien tried to contain his surprise. “R-really? What– uhhh, what do people have to say about him?”

He winced inwardly. He knew he shouldn’t ask. But curiosity got the better of him today. Maybe learning the news through the filter or Alya’s paraphrasing instead of reading the negative comments firsthand would lessen the sting of what people said about him.

Marinette whipped her head around at the mention of his alter ego. “Wait, what about Chat Noir?” she inquired.

“Girl,” Alya replied, her voice filled with renewed exuberance. “You would not believe how much we’ve had to censor and moderate all the inappropriate things people have been saying!”

Adrien flinched in his seat. “Wow… do people really hate him that much?” he asked, trying to conceal the dejection in his voice.

Alya busted out into loud guffaws. “Hate?! Dude, most people don’t hate him; they LOVE him! By ‘inappropriate’ comments, I mean the kinda stuff you wouldn’t want your grandma to catch you reading! There’s a whole giant section dedicated to his new fan club!” she said as she removed her glasses so she could wipe away the tears of laughter.

“WHAT?!” Adrien squawked in confusion, his face feeling hotter than the ovens back at the bakery. “A fan club??”

Marinette burst into uncontrollable snickering. “Has it really gotten that bad?!”

Nino joined in, “Bro! Adrien, I can’t believe you haven’t heard Alya rant about these rabid fans before! They call themselves the ‘Noir Nation’, and the kind of things they’ve been writing would make adult romance authors blush like schoolgirls!”

Alya nodded, thoroughly amused. “And that’s not including all the fanfiction people have been writing.”

“Wait– the WHAT?! There’s fanfiction?!!” Marinette gaped in shock, as if she’d been hit in the face with an enormous pie. “Alya, how come I never knew about this?!”

“Why? You wanna read em? Girl, you’ll get no judgment from me. If you wanna check ‘em out for yourself, just go check under the hashtag ‘Ladynoir’.”

Marinette stammered as her arms flailed in her bewilderment, accidentally knocking her phone off the table and onto the floor, her eyes bigger and rounder than Adrien had ever seen them. “They have a ship name?!” she screeched.

“Just mind the ratings though,” Alya advised. “Some of them can get pretty steamy. You wouldn’t want someone to catch you reading those in public,” she added with a wink.

Marinette continued to sputter incoherently. “NO, I am NOT gonna read it!! It would be different if they were fictional characters, but I could never read fanfiction about real people!”

Alya raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Mm-hmm… Sure.”

Marinette’s hands flew to her face, trying to hide how red her entire face had gotten, and released a long squeak that resembled a hamster on helium. As shocked as Adrien was about these rather unexpected news, seeing Marinette’s over-the-top reaction brought a wide grin to his face and he busted out laughing.

He bent over to retrieve Marinette’s phone, since she was too busy being mortified to notice it had fallen to the floor. As he was about to hand it back, the screen lit up and Adrien saw the lockscreen wallpaper: it was the same photo of Ladybug and Chat Noir that he himself had saved earlier that day. He smiled, not exactly sure what to make of it, but finding it adorable that she’d liked the photo enough to set it as her lockscreen.

He tapped her shoulder, waiting for her to respond. She emerged from behind her impromptu hand shield and turned her head, then her eyes widened once again as soon as she saw what Adrien was showing her. She jolted straight up, stiff as a board, and her eyes met his, cheeks turning tomato red. He winked at her, amused about this little secret between them, and handed back her phone without a word.

Marinette accepted it with a meek-sounding, “Thanks,” looking like she wanted to explain the photo, but not able to do so unless she wanted Alya and Nino to find out that she was potentially a… ahem– “Ladynoir” shipper.

Switching the conversation to something else (which Marinette seemed to be eternally grateful for), the group chatted until it became time for them to scatter to their next destinations.

With a wave, Adrien exited the classroom and headed towards fencing practice, one of the few activities he decided to stick with despite not being forced to participate. Fencing, along with Chinese lessons, were not only enjoyable, but were also quite useful. Sadly, he didn’t have access to a piano anymore, so he wasn’t able to pursue that hobby for the time being. Hopefully later down the line, when things had settled down and he’d found his own place to live, he’d be able to finance one.

Thinking about the future had become an exciting pastime instead of an anxiety-inducing one, and it was all thanks to his friends and those he cared about. He smiled as he reached the door to the locker rooms, continuing to daydream of what was to come.

(Mood music: "Recollection 3" - Shirō Sagisu (BLEACH OST, "The Diamond Dust Rebellion")

Adrien finished getting dressed for fencing, his head still blissfully floating in the clouds. He stored his belongings into his assigned locker, shutting it with a loud clang, which echoed through the empty room.

Huh...? Empty?

He swiveled his head around, surprised that there was no one beside him. He stood up and began walking down the large room, peeking down the other locker rows looking for his classmates; but there was nobody.

Where was everyone? There’s no way that every single one of them was running late. Had his lessons been cancelled and he’d somehow missed a text message or email? He began heading back towards his locker to check his phone for any schedule changes.

Before he reached his destination, however, heavy thudding footsteps broke the eerie silence. Adrien whipped his body around to greet whoever they belonged to.

The owner of those footsteps was one of the last people Adrien expected to meet here.

“Gaspard?!”

Adrien stood agape, face to face with his old bodyguard, whom he hadn’t seen in a couple of years; not since he’d resigned and moved out of the country. Nathalie had mentioned that in his resignation letter, Gaspard said that he’d become involved in an overseas business venture involving the market of rare action figures. Nevertheless, Adrien couldn’t help but suspect that his father’s ill temper and poor treatment of their employees was the true reason for his departure.

Adrien’s first reaction was surprise and joy, and he rushed forward to greet and embrace him. However, as he approached and got a better look at the man’s face, Adrien’s mood instantly morphed into confusion and apprehension. There was something odd about his eyes.

Something wasn’t right. Why was Gaspard here? And why now?

He came to a halt about a meter before reaching him. An oppressive weight seemed to press in all around him, and he had to suppress a shiver. “Wait. Gaspard, did–” he gulped, “–did my father send you?”

His old bodyguard did not reply, but took a heavy step towards him. Adrien stepped back.

“Please… I can’t go back. I live somewhere else now, and I’m very happy there. Whatever he told you about the situation, it’s a lie.”

His bodyguard continued to approach him, his stare vacant and unsettling.

Fighting the urge to panic, he pleaded, “You don’t have to do this. If he’s offered you compensation, I can match it; it’ll just take me a bit of time. But we can work something out, right?? For old time’s sake?”

He continued walking backwards until he bumped into something firm, but it wasn’t a wall; it was another person. Before he could turn around, they grabbed him by the shoulders, detaining him and preventing him from running away.

He was about to shout for help when something sharp jabbed him on the side of the neck, injecting a cold liquid. Adrien’s eyes grew wide in terror.

Shit.

Adrien swore as he jerked away, elbowing whoever was behind him and managing to break free. Rubbing at the spot where the syringe had stabbed him, he glanced back to take a look at his other assailant, only to see... another Gaspard?

Why are there two of him??

This was wrong. Gaspard didn’t have a twin; he knew that for a fact. He’d worked for the Agrestes ever since Adrien was a toddler and was too young to even pronounce his name correctly (hence the nickname “Gorille”, which stuck around for years afterwards). Additionally, there was something uncanny, otherworldly, even, about the way these two men looked and moved.

He shook himself out of his stupor. He didn’t have time to contemplate any possible explanations. He had to get out of there fast.

He sprinted towards the exit, but only managed to travel a few paces before he lost his footing and tripped. He fell to the ground hard, almost hitting his head on a nearby bench. As he struggled to get up, he realized that his fingers and toes had already gone numb.

Not good.

Time was running out. Adrenaline coursed through him and, with a grunt, he hefted himself to his feet and scrambled towards the exit, as fast as he could despite a heavy limp. Though his heart was hammering and his legs felt like they were filled with sand, he pushed himself, concentrating on reaching the door.

After taking a few steps, however, he realized that even if he did manage to exit the locker room, the area beyond was an open courtyard. Meaning he wasn’t going to be able to reach someplace safe before getting caught. He had no choice but to transform into Chat Noir, and hopefully Plagg’s powers and strength could help him escape and find somewhere to hide.

He’d scarcely uttered the first syllable in the transformation phrase when he was tackled to the ground. A giant hand swiftly covered his mouth and Adrien felt his hands get bound together with thick zip ties behind his back. A muffled scream of writhing frustration made its way up his throat as his limbs became more and more useless by the second.

No… This can’t be happening! Please, this can’t be how it all ends!

Just when his life had finally gained a semblance of normalcy and he’d found happiness again, it would get ripped away and he would disappear without a trace, leaving everyone to wonder what had happened to him. Leaving his friends to think that Gabriel had pulled him from school and they would never see him again. Leaving Ladybug to wonder if Chat had abandoned her forever. Leaving her to fight Hawkmoth alone. Again.

He couldn’t let that happen. He thrashed and struggled as furiously as he could, fighting the feelings of overwhelming helplessness that threatened to consume him. Nearing despair, he was too distracted to notice Plagg phrasing through the wall, away from the skirmish, in search of the only person who could save him.

(Mood music: "Run" - Ludovico Einaudi)

Marinette fidgeted with her pencil, her feet wiggled and bounced under her desk. She didn’t understand; when she’d arrived at the art club, her head had been filled with inspiration and ideas that she’d been excited to draw and execute. However, at the moment, her mind was filled with noise and disquietude.

Having had enough, she excused herself to visit the restroom. Once she’d walked far enough from the classroom, she opened her purse to talk to Tikki about her current dilemma.

“It’s the same feeling as last night, Tikki! Except that would mean one of three possibilities. Option A.) It’s nothing and I’m going crazy. And— don’t give me that look, Tikki! I can see what you’re thinking and I don’t have time for your cheeky sass right now!” The kwami snickered while Marinette cleared her throat and continued, “Option B.) that Chat is here, at this school, which is impossible because his school’s on the other side of the city, that’s why he always leaves the house super early for his long commute.”

Tikki opened her mouth and looked like she was about to say something, but then didn’t (...or couldn’t?).

Marinette resumed, “Or, C.) that my–– what do I even call it? My ‘Spidey sense’??–– that it’s got a long distance mode, and Chat is all the way across Paris and he’s in trouble! But what am I supposed to do about that from here?! I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking!”

Tikki shrugged. “Follow your instincts, Marinette. There’s no harm in taking a quick look around the school, right?”

Marinette groaned. “UGH! It doesn’t make sense!! Am I going to get interrupted like this all the time from now on?” She shook her head resolutely. “No. I can’t just go off on random field trips every single time I feel a random fit of anxiety. I’m sure it’s just leftover jitters from last night. I’m supposed to call Master Fu after school anyway; he can help me figure everything out. I’m just gonna go back to class and forget about it.”

Tikki frowned, not quite convinced, but deciding not to press further.

Marinette made her way back to the classroom in a frustrated huff. But as her hand reached to turn the handle, the feelings of danger and urgency multiplied tenfold. Without a word, she sprinted away in the opposite direction, not even knowing where she was running to, only knowing she had to get there immediately.

She reached the large common area of the school downstairs. Her head whipped around, frantically searching for something, anything. In her haste, she didn’t notice a small black creature zoom into her open purse.

A few moments later, she felt a frantic tugging at her shirt from below.

“Marinette!! Over there! Check the locker room, quick!!!” Tikki whisper-screamed as she peeked outside the purse, her tone uncharacteristically frantic.

Marinette nodded, then sprinted to the locker room.

“Wait! You should transform first!” Tikki added.

No time!

“Marinette, wait!!”

Despite Tikki’s protests, Marinette raced towards the double doors, tackling them open.

Three sets of eyes landed on her as she skidded to a halt, but only one pair consumed her entire attention. She gasped in horror, hands flying to her face as she stared at what was occurring in front of her. Adrien let out a desperate, muffled scream urging her to run.

His panicked voice snapped her out of her dazed shock; but instead of running, she stood her ground, eyes darting back and forth across the area searching for something useful. The room was remarkably barren except for a lone broom a short distance away from her. She grabbed it and leaped towards the closest attacker (the one holding Adrien down), swinging it like a baseball bat.

The man didn’t even try to avoid the hit; the broomstick merely bounced off the side of his face where Marinette had hit him. She frowned in confusion, then tried hitting him again, bringing the stick down on the top of his head like an axe.

SNAP.

The end of the broom flew off, and Marinette stared in shock at the broken broomstick.

“What the hell are you?!” Marinette exclaimed, shifting her grip on the shortened wooden stub.

She pounced at the second bodyguard, bringing her weapon down in a stabbing motion; but he swatted at her hand, disarming her. She yelped in pain, leaping backwards to get some distance between them.

She was outmatched. The only strategy available was to use their own size against them. With a feint to the side, she shot at his legs for a takedown, hoping to catch him off balance. He called her bluff and shoved her backwards with his giant palm, then kneed her in the stomach.

Winded from the impact, Marinette doubled over with a gasping wheeze, fighting with all her might to keep herself from collapsing onto the ground. She forced herself upright and attacked again. With a clumsy jerk, she lunged forward, swinging wild punches at her opponent. The shots connected but his expression barely changed; it was like beating a breathing punching bag.

The bodyguard backhanded Marinette across the face. Pain shooting across her cheek, she staggered, almost losing her balance. In her daze, she watched helplessly as the man reared his arm back. There was no chance to dodge. His fist connected with her abdomen, delivering a liver shot that shut down her entire body. She crumpled to the floor as if boneless. She tried to call out Adrien’s name, but her mouth merely opened in a silent scream.

Marinette could hear Adrien’s distressed screaming, but it sounded distant, like they were underwater. The edges of her vision grew black and fuzzy, the entire room dissolving around her. She had to consciously force her lungs to inhale, but couldn’t fill them all the way, as if a boulder had been placed on top of her chest.

Faintly, she felt herself getting picked up off the ground and carried away over someone’s shoulder. Disoriented and semi-blinded, the sudden movement and rough jostling made her head spin and gave her vertigo. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

A few moments later, they stopped moving, and she heard a door burst open. Where were they? Before she could gather her senses, she was in the air, thrown several meters away, landing with a hard thud. A sharp pain traveled down her body as she rolled into the wall across them. The shriek that tried to escape her throat emerged as a strained, shallow whine.

The man stomped out, leaving her alone in the room. “Stop…!” she rasped out, managing to tilt her neck upwards, head pounding.

The bodyguard slammed the door shut, followed by a bang and a clattering sound that could only mean he’d broken the doorknob of whatever room she was in.

Marinette's vision became more and more blurred. At the verge of losing consciousness, she fought to keep her eyes open as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

No, she couldn’t pass out! She had to save Adrien! Stay awake, Marinette, stay awake!!

She bit down on her lip hard, focusing on the sharp sting, on the swelling that was already forming around her right eye, forcing herself to feel the pain her body was in. At this moment, feeling pain was better than falling unconscious. She concentrated on her breathing, slowly regaining her senses.

She reached down to open her purse and get Tikki’s help… only to be met with emptiness. Panic settled in her gut as she realized that sometime during the skirmish, the purse had slipped off her shoulder. She sat up, slowly, so she wouldn’t risk feeling faint again from the change in positions.

She squinted, adjusting her eyesight to the darkness of the room. It seemed to be some sort of supply closet. After a failed few attempts to stand, she crawled towards the door instead, careful not to bump into the crates and shelves that filled the area.

The girl eyed the broken doorknob wearily. She was pretty proficient at lockpicking and breaking into things, but not as good at breaking out. Her only hope was that Tikki would be able to find her… if she was even nearby.

She swore to herself. Why had she rushed in and attacked two grown ass men (who, incidentally, may or may not be supernatural to boot!) instead of hiding and creating a strategy?! Now she was useless, Tikki was gone, and Adrien was surely on his way to get auctioned to the highest bidder in the criminal black market and ransomed off for an enormous sum. Great job, Marinette. Adrien’s been abducted and it’s all your fault.

Gathering all the determination she could muster, she tried to call out for help. But her voice was still too hoarse, and only a weak croak came out. She clenched her fists, grumbling irritably. Time for a different approach. Somehow, she needed to make noise.

After a brief search, she found a hard, metallic object that she could use to hammer on the door. She tested it out; it was surprisingly effective. She doubled her efforts, making as big a racket as possible. Hopefully, it would only be a matter of time before somebody heard her, let her out, and she could go find Adrien.

She couldn’t let anything else happen to another loved one. Not again.

–––––

I'M REEEAAAAALLY SORRY FOR THAT CLIFFHANGER JSHDKFJHSKDF ᕕ(╯°д°)ᕗ  I tried splitting up the sections differently but it didn't really flow as well.

But the next chapter is almost done, so I'll have it ready by next weekend!!

[whump-a-la-mode]

this is such a general thing but defiant villain whumpee slowly breaking pls :)

Thank you so much for the ask!! I hope this is slow enough. It's not exactly the traditional whumpee breaking, but I hope it's interesting nonetheless! Feel free to send in another ask if you want something different ^^

CW//Talk of mass destruction, sleep deprivation torture, brief pet whump mention, forced to eat gross food

"It's over."

There was a weariness to the newscaster's voice-- the kind that those in the profession were never meant to display. The sheer essence of bone-deep exhaustion. A body squeezed dry of adrenaline, until fight or flight turned to fatigue.

But, the fight was won.

"For the last three days, we have been running twenty four hour coverage of the battle occurring downtown. The battle began when Villain's forces attempted to overrun an R&D lab, following the occupation of their original headquarters by our city's heroes.

The destruction has been uncountable. But, it's over.

After a final assault at three in the morning, today, the last of Villain's personal guard fled the stronghold, and were taken into captivity. An hour later, the menace themself was captured.

It's over.

What exactly will be done with Villain is unclear, but Leader has assured us that appropriate measures have been prepared for their secure containment.

As for us? At long last, goodnight Metropolis."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"And good morning, sleepyhead."

Villain could not help but wince as light washed over them in a boiling wave-- the warmth of darkness torn away from them-- as the back doors of the truck were swung open.

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life." They snapped back, hoping the venom in their voice reached its recipient, standing at the truck's mouth.

Hero.

Of course, of all people, their welcoming committee had to be fucking Hero. The biggest asshat Metropolis had to offer. The worst, most stupidly noble, stupidly loyal, stupidly-

Their fury reached a boiling point to which enraged thoughts turned incoherent. It did not matter why they hated the idiot standing before them. It mattered only that anger alone made their veins feel as though they were overflowing with magma.

"Am I?" The noble fool cocked their head to the side, mocking and arrogant. "Or are you just upset that you've lost?"

"You think I've lost?" Villain let out a hearty chuckle. "All this effort, and you've caused me a minor setback, at most."

"Well, which one of us in the cage?"

They narrowed their eyes to slits. Hero was right. They were both staring through the bars of a cage, but Villain was very much the one contained. It was a tiny, steel construction. Large enough to stand up in, and take one step in each direction, but such was all.

Loaded into the back of a truck like some kind of zoo animal. They wanted to scream!

But, unlike the heroes, they could hold back.

"Me staying here to amuse you does not equate to defeat, Hero."

"Is that all you're doing? Humoring me?"

"Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?"

"Plenty." They smirked. "For one, sitting in the back of a truck for fourteen hours doesn't exactly seem like something you'd do to humor me."

Fourteen hours...

"Have you considered that I'm simply playing a long game?"

"It'll be the longest game of your life, then. Don't plan on getting out of here anytime soon. Or, y'know, ever. That's kind of the whole point."

"You really think you can hold me forever?"

"Oh, I know so. If you knew what was coming for you, you wouldn't be taking this so lightly."

"Oh, I'm so scared. What are you gonna do, give me a donut and tell me to hug this whole thing out?"

Hero chuckled, at that.

"Why don't you come and see for yourself?"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You're sure this will work?" Leader cocked a brow, hoping that the teeth marks in their lower lip weren't visible. It was a nervous habit, chewing like that.

"Certain." Scientist had a chipper tone to them-- a student having solved a math problem. "We've been developing this method for months. Trust me, they have no chance."

"None?"

"None. Even better, this technique is more than a simple containment method. It has a progressive weakening effect. Within a few months, they'll be like putty in your hand."

"You know we're talking about Villain here, right?"

"Precisely!"

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Villain had expected high security.

Of course they had. They'd quite frankly expected something ridiculous. A cell suspended over a pit of lava. Or a shark-infested pool. Or maybe they'd simply contain them through the power of sedatives.

None of the options sounded particularly enjoyable. But, all three sounded better than the room they stood in front of at that moment.

Six guards stood around them, each heavily armed, and not afraid to display this fact. Two stood on either side of them, each holding a chain attached to one of the twin manacles that adorned both their wrists-- they'd expected handcuffs, but two shackles per wrist seemed a little excessive. The two remaining guards stood with one in front and one behind. Their chains were those connected to Villain's feet. One tug, and they'd be face-first on the tile.

The restraints didn't make them want to flee any less. Not when they saw that room. Even chained as they were, they squirmed at the very sight of what stood before them.

It was rather large, though not ostentatiously so. Though, its size was accentuated by the complete lack of furniture lining the walls.

No. There were only two things inside the chamber.

The first stood at the center. A massive, metal ring, perhaps ten feet in height and the same in width. Four cylinders of the same material extended into the circle's center, looking terribly like hungry mouths.

One for each wrist, one for each ankle.

They were going to be splayed out like a bearskin carpet. Not to mention the vulnerability... With their limbs spread in every which direction, everything would be exposed. Their stomach, their back, their head. And they would be without a hope of retaliation.

It was a terrifying thought, but the elaborate restraint was nothing compared to the other thing inside the chamber.

Light.

There must have been a thousand of them. Shimmering, dazzling lights. On the ceiling, on the walls, some even on the floor.

It had not been since Villain's childhood that light had truly affected them. The manifestation of their abilities had coincided with the appearance of their acute sensitivity to the sun. Such was to be expected' a supernatural ability to move through places dark and shadowed, to control the shroud as though it were a thing rather than an absence did not exactly leave one looking forward to the sunrise.

Yet, they were not a vampire. Through gradual acclimation, they had learned to become comfortable with normal levels of light exposure. Spending a few hours under the sun's rays was not a problem, nor was existing within an indoor space, dominated by artificial lamps and LEDs.

But that room...

Villain could not take it. In desperation, they pulled, tugging on the restraints that dangled around them like tails. But, even they were no match for six men.

And, thus, they entered.

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"Now, I can see you weren't lying!"

The voice startled Villain, sent a jolt through their chest, but it did nothing to raise their head or open their eyes. Not immediately. Lifting their gaze was a task accomplished with a considerable amount of effort, and unveiling their eyes from their lids made their corneas feel to have been pierced by searing blades.

They could hardly see Hero, through the blazing lights.

"You really were trying to humor me. This is hilarious!"

It was with a terribly uncomfortable feeling that they felt fury overtake their fatigue.

"It's only been six days. I can play the long game."

"Is that why you've been hanging around?"

Though they tried, in their manacles, it proved impossible to ball their fists. The metal fit too closely around their fingers, contoured to not allow the slightest shadow of movement.

"Maybe it is, Hero. Maybe it is."

"Maybe." The Hero took a step forth, then another, until they were mere inches from their captive nemesis. "They've really done something here, huh? Ya' can hardly move an inch."

"There's a difference between not being able to and not wanting to."

"Is that so?"

Hero placed a chilled hand on their nemesis' side-- just above their hip, where their range of movement was the most limited by their splayed limbs.

Villain's heart leapt as they felt a tiny spark, jolting through their chest.

Suffering a direct blow from their nemesis was a fate they had only endured a handful of times. Now, there was nothing to protect them from it. Not even the adrenaline of battle.

"They say you're gonna give up, y'know." Hero trailed their hand, up and down Villain's taut skin. "I think they're betting on it, up in HQ. It's only a matter of time. We can all see you're getting weaker. Tired. You aren't great at hiding it."

"What I'm good at is acting."

"You're saying this is all an act? So you won't mind if I do... this?"

That time, the feeling was more of a spark.

Villain's scream echoed throughout the chamber, but there was no one to hear them but the light.

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"Hey! Get up. Can't you hear me?"

Of course Villain could hear Hero. They'd been hearing their stupid voice every single one of these last...

How many days had it been?

They couldn't remember. Too many.

"There's a difference between hearing and listening."

"I thought this whole breaking you thing would be more fun."

"I'm sorry that I'm not entertaining you."

"Nah, I don't think seeing you strung up like this will ever get old." Like a child, Hero laughed. "Anyways, I brought you some food. It's fish!"

Villain hated fish.

But, struggling would mean opening their eyes. Looking at the light.

And, thus, they ate.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Come on."

A sharp vibration rattled through the restraint frame, and, consequently, to the cores of Villain's bones. But, they did not move.

"I know you can hear me. So get up!"

Hero kicked the frame again, but received the same reaction.

"I thought you were playing the long game. I'm looking for some payoff, here. This new Villain is boring."

Maybe.

Maybe they were boring.

But they didn't have the energy to be anything else. Not anymore.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"What did I tell you?" Scientist smirked. "Like putty in your hand!"

"I still don't understand how you did it." Leader shook their head. "The biggest threat to the city..."

"Oh, it was easy. They've got those weird dark powers, yeah? So they aren't hurt by the light. Not exactly. But, when there's lights on, they can't sleep! Not a wink. You could leave 'em outside and give 'em the keys to your own car, and they still wouldn't be able to escape."

"You really think so?"

"I know so. By the way, who won the betting pool?"

"Engineering department. They said three months, they were the closest. You're saying they haven't slept in three months?"

"Yep! There's not much left of the old Villain anymore, though. So... I mean, now, they can be whatever you want them to be. Do you have any ideas?"

"Hm..." Leader drummed their fingers against the wall. "I have always wanted a bodyguard."

"I thought you always wanted a dog."

"True, true."

"So... why not both?"

"You have a technique for that too?"

"Yep!"

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 1/?)

Because nothing says ‘independence day’ like writing the participants in a French rebellion as members of the British upper class...

The Bridgerton AU that no one asked for. Will be at least 4 chapters, probably, to be published on a schedule only God herself can predict. Developing E/R, hijinks and shenanigans. All of the shenanigans.

One might recall when, not too long ago, the author of this paper hung up her pen and retired from reporting on the drama that each new season of fresh-faced debutantes and their endlessly anxious mothers brings. But alas, dear Reader, the excitement of this season has proven too much for this Author to suffer without company – which is why the pen has been passed to a new scribe.

But the fortuitous timing of the season has not been met with equally thrilling events for sharing here, as indeed, the most recent ball, hosted annually at the start of the season by the ever-insufferable Thénardiers, was positively under-attended. Not by the eager mothers that are the backbone of any season or their equally eager daughters, but by the young, eligible men who usually at least deign to make an appearance, dance a few dances, and exchange niceties as is expected for men of their station.

Instead, the only poor sap who wandered into the Thénardiers’ den of matchmaking was the Baron of Pontmercy, who was positively beset by hopeful ingénues, the most brazen of which was undoubtedly the Thénardiers’ eldest daughter, Éponine. While this Author notes that Miss Thénardier has had a patchy history with suitors and thus cannot be fully blamed for attempting to sink her claws into one as eligible as the baron, this Author must also sympathize with Baron Pontmercy, who seemed only to find himself with one moment to himself. 

Then again, rumor has it that his single moment was interrupted by an unknown young lady with an equally unknown chaperone who whisked her away posthaste. Her identity is one mystery both this Author and Baron Pontmercy are equally eager to discover, but the more pressing question is where the others of Baron Pontmercy’s gender were when they should have been equally beset by potential brides.

Never fear: Whatever answers I find, dear Reader, I shall certainly share with other enquiring minds. For a nominal fee, of course. While there are rumors of young men meeting in the backroom of a certain gentlemen’s club to discuss the overthrow of society, capitalism, and the King himself, this Author, being of the gentler sex, finds herself unable to obtain an invite, and as such, alas, cannot bring herself to comply with their lofty goals. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 MARCH 1831

The air in the backroom at the Musain Gentlemen’s Club was hazy with smoke and thick with plentiful conversation as its guests, all young men dressed in their dinner best, traded stories and jokes in between sips of their drinks.

At least one among them was not drinking, though – Enjolras, who sat in an overlarge armchair towards the back of the room, his back to one of the large windows that spanned almost the entire height of the wall. He alone was also not joining his friends in their merriment, his brow instead creased as he read over something.

When he had finished, he glanced up. “Combeferre,” he called, barely raising his voice despite the cacophony of the room. 

Not that he needed to: the moment he spoke, the room fell quiet as all eyes glanced at him as if waiting for him to continue. In return, he just arched an eyebrow at them. “Well, don’t let me put an end to your fun.”

A dark haired man sitting at a table in the far corner playing cards with two others raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Worry not,” he called in return. “You won’t.”

Laughter broke out yet again at that, and most of their number returned to their previous conversations as Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras’s. Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unamused. “Why is Grantaire even here?” he asked Combeferre, who, quite to the contrary, looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I imagine because you have not yet told him that you wish for him to leave and never return,” Combeferre said evenly before giving Enjolras a rather assessing look. “Assuming, of course, that is what you wish.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “That’s not the point—”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “No, the point is that you had a comment, I assume, about the pamphlet I gave you to review.”

Enjolras still looked disgruntled, but seemed more than willing to allow the change in subject. “The pamphlet is fine, but I imagine you already knew that.” He handed the pamphlet draft back to Combeferre before asking, “What do you imagine the distribution schedule to look like? With Parliament sitting this week—”

He was interrupted by a thin, rather-nervous looking man appearing at his elbow, the doorman to the establishment who was paid a decent sum by each man inside the room to not interrupt them and to report nothing of their comings and going to any who might enquire. When Enjolras had made that arrangement, he had been thinking of the police; when his friends had followed his lead, most were thinking of their mothers.

“M’Lord Enjolras, I do beg your pardon—” he started, sounding almost as nervous as he looked.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed again. “It’s fine, what is it?” he asked, a touch impatiently.

The doorman bobbed his head and cleared his throat. “There is a, ah, a woman seeking entry.”

Bahorel, seated nearby, let out a wolf whistle. “The young ladies of the season are getting restless!” he crowed, to much laughter. 

“Restless, and bold, if they are coming into the city to seek their groom, and without a chaperone to boot,” Bossuet said with a grin.

“Leave to Enjolras to be the one to cause all tradition to break,” Jehan sniggered.

Enjolras could feel his ears burning red but he studiously ignored the jeers and catcalls from his friends, instead frowning at the doorman. “May I ask why are you telling me this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Last I checked, it was your policy to restrict admittance to men, despite my protestations to the contrary.”

“Of course, M’Lord, it’s just…” The doorman quailed slightly at the look Enjolras gave him. “The woman in question claims to be your mother.”

Immediately, all jokes ceased as identical, horror-stricken looks crossed the faces of each of his friends. Enjolras blanched, all the blood draining from his face. “Did you confirm that I was inside?” he asked, a little desperately.

The doorman shook his head, his eyes widening. “No, of course not, m’lord’s discretion being of utmost importance to this establishment.” He hesitated. “That said, she did not appear to believe our denial, and is threatening to come inside and verify for yourself that you are not here.”

Enjolras groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is,” he sighed. He glanced at Combeferre as if considering asking for his assistance, but seemed to think better of it, instead standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “Right,” he said. “Well, I think you’ve got everything handled here, so I suppose I’ll just go, er, handle this situation.”

Combeferre again looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And, if you do not return, I shall call upon you later this week, shall I?”

“Yes, but the question will be more whether you should call upon me at my house or at the hospital,” Enjolras muttered, and it was to Combeferre’s credit that he still somehow managed not to laugh.

The same could not be said for Grantaire, who started humming what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a funeral dirge as soon as he headed towards the door, and Enjolras gave him the nastiest glare he could muster. Of course, Grantaire was unaffected – if anything, it only caused his grin to widen, and he raised his cup in yet another mocking toast as Enjolras swept out of the room to go deal with his mother.

It was anyone’s guess whether his mother or Grantaire irritated him more.

He started to ask the doorman where his mother was, but found that he did not need to ask – her voice was echoing all the way from the entrance hall. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Enjolras,” she was practically shrieking, and Enjolras winced, mentally calculating how much money it would take to smooth this particular incident over. Certainly less than when Courfeyrac almost burned the place down, but almost certainly more than when Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten into a fistfight and broken two statues and a chandelier.

He really needed better friends.

And a different mother.

“I demand to speak with my son!” his mother continued, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “And do not give me this nonsense that he is not here, I know quite well where my son is!”

“M’lady, I apologize, but as I have said, we cannot confirm that your son—”

“I shall confirm it for myself,” Enjolras interrupted, saving the poor proprietor, who had never looked more relieved to see him. “Mother, kindly stop screeching at these gentlemen for doing their jobs.” His mother spluttered incoherently  but Enjolras knew better than to allow her the chance to regroup.

Instead, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her to the door, glancing over his shoulder to nod his thanks at the proprietor. As soon as they were outside the building, Enjolras dropped any pretense at propriety. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, not releasing his mother from his grip. “Coming all the way into the city to find me? Pray tell what could possibly have been so important to cause such a scene!”

His mother yanked her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “A scene?” she repeated, her voice deathly quiet. “My dear son, if you consider that a scene, you are ill-prepared for what is soon to follow.”

Enjolras sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “There is no need for theatrics—”

Without warning, his mother slapped him across the face. “Theatrics?” she hissed. “When I have spent every waking moment these past several years trying to ensure your future and the future of our house!”

She made as if to hit him again but Enjolras caught her wrist, staying her hand. “Madam, you may be the Dowager Marchioness but I am the Marquess of Enjolras, and I will not permit you to assault me in the streets, my mother or not.” He released her arm before adding sardonically, “Besides, think of the gossip.”

Again his mother gave him no warning to gird himself, but this time, she burst into tears, sobbing into his shirt. “Oh, for the love of—” Enjolras took her again by the elbow, gentler this time, and led her to where her carriage waited. “Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped. “You have already made enough of a scene this evening.”

“Perhaps a scene is what it will take!” she half-shouted in return. “For you to finally listen to me, to hear what I have been telling you!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding out his hand to help her into her carriage, but she stubbornly refused to move. “Since you clearly don’t listen to me when I make arrangements solely for your benefit.”

“I assure you, you have never once done anything solely for my benefit,” Enjolras said tiredly. “But if it will stop your screaming then please, tell me the latest way in which I have ruined your plans for my future.”

“The Thénardier ball!” his mother wailed, crying again. “All those eligible young ladies, and you could not even deign to show your face! How am I to get you married at this rate?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he half-feared he would pull a muscle. “Hang the bloody Thénardier ball,” he ground out, hesitating for only a moment before picking his mother up and placing her inside the carriage, swinging up after her before she could protest. 

“What are you doing?” she cried as the carriage moved off at double speed, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power there was that his mother’s driver also clearly did not wish to linger.

Enjolras sighed. “You wanted me attention,” he said tiredly. “So you have it, albeit not in public where you clearly wanted it.”

For one long moment, his mother just glared at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Then she sighed and sat upright, her pose turning almost prim as she drew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Very well,” she said calmly, all traces of earlier hysteria gone in an instant, and Enjolras realized immediately that he had been duped, that he had played directly into her hands.

She had anticipated that making a scene would be the easiest way to get him to leave with her.

And now she had him as a captive audience for however long it took for her driver to reach her house. And while he was not a betting man, he would wager all his money and lands that she had directed her driver to take the long way.

His mother was smiling at him, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Enjolras groaned, tipping his head back against the pillowed cushions. “Please don’t tell me that you really pulled all of that because you wished to discuss the Thénardier ball.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said before tapping his knee. “And sit upright, you will cause your clothes to wrinkle.” Enjolras groaned and reluctantly sat upright, glaring balefully at her as he waited for her to continue. “No, I merely wished to discuss something and this seemed the easiest way.”

“Then by all means, please tell me: what do you want to discuss?”

“Why, what else?” she asked, a small smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your marriage.”

----------

There were few things that Enjolras loathed more than being hoodwinked by his own mother into a conversation he’d been spending the past several years avoiding, but as he stood staring up at the rather imposing façade of a house he had been to only perhaps a handful of times, he thought this just might rank.

Still, his options were decidedly limited, and he hesitated only a moment more before climbing the stairs to the front door, knocking briskly. In telling of a house less used to visits during the season, it took a moment for the butler to answer the door, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the stoop as he waited. 

“May I help you?” the butler asked as he opened the door. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I’m here to see Grantaire.”

The butler eyed him warily. “And who should I tell Mr. Grantaire is here to see him?”

It took everything in Enjolras not to roll his eyes. “Tell him that the Marquess of Enjolras requests his presence,” he said dryly, hating the way the butler’s eyes widened when he realized just who was standing in the doorway.

“Of– of course, m’lord,” the butler said, immediately opening the door wider to usher Enjolras indoors. “Beg your pardon, m’lord. I’ll just, ah, go fetch Mr, Grantaire.”

He retreated up the stairs and Enjolras finally did roll his eyes, sighing heavily as he wandered a little further indoors. He had spent half his life, it seemed, going from one grand house to another, so very little surprised him, but he was intrigued by what he might find in Grantaire’s house. While his own park-adjoining manor had been in his family for generations, and was decorated accordingly, Grantaire came from new money, and this house had belonged to a different family entirely not even a decade before. 

He paused to examine a small portrait of two young children, a boy and a girl, when he heard footsteps clattering on the stairs and he turned to look up as Grantaire joined him, a jacket rather hastily thrown on and buttoned incorrectly.

“My Lord.”

Grantaire’s voice was pitched just slightly higher than usual, in a way that indicated genuine surprise at finding Enjolras standing in his foyer, but somehow still retained the telltale lilt that Enjolras had long since realized meant Grantaire was making fun of him. 

He scowled automatically. “Enjolras,” he corrected with an exasperated half-sigh.

Grantaire inclined his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “My lord Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened.

“Just Enjolras,” he said flatly, not waiting for Grantaire to escort him into the house, instead crossing the foyer to peer into the front sitting room. 

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Grantaire said, following him.

Enjolras twisted his head to give Grantaire a smirk of his own. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I outrank you,” he said. “And believe me when I say this is one time I will feel no guilt using the trappings of the nobility to my advantage.”

Grantaire just snorted, brushing past him into the sitting room, ignoring the tea that had been set on the table and instead making his way over to the drink cart against the far wall. “Forgive me, but I can think of many instances where you undoubtedly used your title and your family to your advantage without any guilt,” he said dryly, pouring himself half a glass full of amber liquid before pausing, considering it, and adding another finger. “But let’s save that particular fight for a different time.” He turned back to Enjolras and raised his glass in a mock toast. “For now, before I forget my manners any further, let me say welcome to my home, and please, allow me to pour you a cup of tea.”

“I am capable of pouring my own tea, thanks,” Enjolras said, a little stiffly, and he sat down on one armchair before leaning forward to rather stubbornly do just that.

Grantaire did not join him, as if he thought keeping physical distance between them might keep things civil. “Only you would think that hospitality was an insult.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “The way you said it, it was.”

“You underestimate my capacity for being genuinely polite,” Grantaire said dryly, taking a large sip of his whiskey.

“Do I?”

“Tell me, my Lord—” Enjolras gritted his teeth but chose not to interrupt him. “—if not to insult me to my face in my own home, what brings you here, and at tea time no less?”

His voice was calm, pleasant even, but Enjolras felt himself flush in realization that he had done exactly that. And no matter how frequently he might wish to throttle Grantaire with his own hands, that was offensive even for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his tea as he stirred it. “I have been rude.

Grantaire looked briefly surprised, as if he had not expected an apology. But then his smirk was back in full force. “All is forgiven...my lord.” Enjolras really might shatter his teacup at this rate. “But you still didn’t answer my question as to why you are here.”

Enjolras set his teacup down and straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I came to ask for your help.”

Grantaire laughed. “So you come to my home, uninvited, you insult me to my face, and you still have the audacity to ask for my help?” He drained half of his whiskey in one long gulp. “You are lucky you have been granted the face of a Greek god, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighed, though he knew it was a losing battle. Grantaire had called him that on the first day they met, when Grantaire was finishing college and Enjolras just beginning, and he had continued to call him that for all the years since. “Look, I am sorry, and not just because I need your help. I am ill suited to polite society and the longer the season drags on, the more foul my temper becomes.”

Grantaire made a small noise of agreement. “You and I both,” he murmured, draining his glass and pouring himself another before finally joining Enjolras, settling into the armchair across from him. “Very well. You have my attention.”

Enjolras leaned forward, sudden urgency in every line of his body. “Word has it that you were instrumental in helping Lord Joly and Mr. Lesgle avoid scandal last season when both were in love with Lady Musichetta.”

“Well, we avoided a big scandal at least,” Grantaire said, eyeing Enjolras carefully. “There must always be a little bit of a scandal or none would believe it.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, all three are happy, and living at Lord Joly’s estate, and not a word about them has been wasted in Lady Whistledown’s papers this season.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I am astonished to learn you have read any of the newly-revived Lady Whistledown’s papers, let alone with enough frequency to speak with such authority on the subject.:

Enjolras flushed a mottled red and looked away. “It’s an easy conversation topic,” he muttered, “when I am forced to speak to those with whom I have nothing in common.”

“Such as the twittering nitwits your mother foists upon you at every turn?” Grantaire asked lightly.

Enjolras met his eyes evenly. “Exactly. And exactly why I am here.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to better learn how to talk with women?” he asked, almost certainly purposefully obtuse. “I admit, I am an expert on the subject, but—”

“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped. “Not to mention if I did need help in that arena, you would be the last person I would turn to.”

Grantaire laughed. “Your loss, he said cheerfully. After all, to have bedded as many women as I with a face like mine requires quite the expert hand at wooing.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Very well. If you are not here for my help in speaking to young ladies to finally secure a marriage match, then why are you here?”

“Because I do need to marry someone,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “But I need it not to be real.” Again he met Grantaire’s eyes. “And you are the only person I can think of who can help me pull that off.”

[itsuki-minamy]

MEMORY STORIES: TO DEAR OLD MEN

* Projects & Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

Certain afternoon. Gojo Sukuna and Iwafune Tenkei were relaxing in the green clan. Sukuna was hungry and engrossed in mobile games, and Iwafune dipped his feet into a kotatsu and drank sake and tasted the salmon with a dull face.

By the way, Mishakuji Yukari hadn't come back in the last few days and Nagare Hisui was taking a nap. Thus, only the greatest age difference duo of the green clan started an incoherent conversation on the spot.

"Hey, Sukuna. Sukuna."

"What? Iwa-san? I'm busy right now."

"You are not busy, because you are playing."

"I'm busy playing! Sorry, but my game is serious!"

"It's a game?"

"I'm serious because it's a game!"

"I see... that's the best word. Then Iwa-san should shut up."

After saying that, he poured sake into the glass and drank it. Sukuna sighed.

As he watched the game screen as usual...

"It's okay. I can talk to Iwa-san while I play."

"I'm happy. No, it's no big deal, I wonder if you'll ever get tired of playing games all the time."

"Not a big question! It's a one-parent family that has trouble speaking! I'm not bored. I don't play the same game all the time."

Sukuna looked at Iwafune.

"Iwa-san, do you want to play? If so, I'll lend you a simple one that even an old man can make."

He was casually saying terrible things.

"It's a game?"

Iwafune looked nostalgic.

"The mahjong was quite addictive when I was a student."

Iwafune said that.

"Chinese dominoes?"

It was a bit outside of Sukuna's definition of the game, but it was rare for Iwafune to talk about it, so he turned around.

"I have done it several times with the application, but is it that interesting?"

"Oh, mahjong is the real thrill of playing while you’d gossiping with a partner. Online is half the fun."

Iwafune remembered that, scooping up salmon with the chopsticks.

"When I was young, it was like an essential education for the students. When the four people, including myself, who was particularly addicted to mahjong, went on a trip to the island of Izu, we brought the table and the pieces."

He tasted carefully when he moistened the salmon.

"So at first we were playing at the inn, but there was also sake there, and anyway, when we finished we continued playing on the beach at night, we brought lanterns and we started moving the mahjong pieces on the beach."

"Were you stupid?"

"Well yeah, maybe it was kind of stupid. But the scenery was really amazing. The bright moon was floating past the horizon and the waves were coming back. I had a good time talking and playing with my friends. It was fun."

"......"

"But after a while, there was a strange noise. I wonder what it was? When I thought it was strange, I was looking for the bulbs that we were eating and I was struck by a lot of exotic Ligia. They were on the game table, the tray and even in our bodies."

"Ah..."

"Then everyone screamed, took off their clothes and took off the exotic Ligia. When I realized it, I was flirting in the sea. I swam, floated and sprayed myself with water."

"Iwa-san, really? They were crazy."

"Hahaha, I was young. It's a time."

Before he knew it, Sukuna stopped playing and stood up to look at Iwafune.

"It looks like fun, Iwa-san."

"That's right. I attended one of their wedding a few years later, but I was crying a bit. I thought that even such a fool could get married. Well, I can't forget those stupid days so easily."

"......"

"Sukuna, remember. What you remember later will be more than a spectacular incident, it will be an unexpected event from casual days."

Iwafume winked at Sukuna and said that simply. Sukuna stuck out his tongue.

"Old man."

++++++++++

Winter sea. Leaden sky. Doon, Doon, there was a heavy wave sound as if they were beating a large drum in the distance.

"What is it?"

Sukuna blew his nose.

"Isn't it an old story that Iwa-san remembered from when he came to the sea?"

He bit his lip to keep the tears from spilling. An exchange between two loved ones on a normal day that he will never forget. When he was walking on the beach, he suddenly revived that in his mind.

Iwafune's red face. His voice in good humor. His gray eyes with pain that seemed playful and looked at life somewhere. That standing figure.

How he was laughing.

It all came back close to his chest. It was a really unpleasant event.

"It means that I am also an old man."

Forgiving a tear drop, Sukuna rubbed his eyes and started walking forward with determination again.